Bootstrap's Bootstraps
by The Lamia
Summary: The story of Bootstrap's 'drowning'.


Bootstrap's bootstraps

By Lamia MacDonald

Prologue "Tell me a story! Tell me a story!" bounced a small, six year old boy, his long dark blond hair flapping in the wind on the rocky beach below the cliff in Port Royal.

An older man sat on a boulder near by, his legs up to his thighs still covered in sea water and seaweed from his trek from the small rowboat 'anchored' out to sea. He seemed a bit worried, as if he didn't feel especially comfortable on dry land, and indeed, when he moved it was with the lurch of a man instinctively moving with the swoop of a ship breaching a wave. He was keeping an eye on the lad, and a younger women, presumably the boy's mother, stood staring out to sea with a sad smile on her face at a crusty ship anchored away from shore, seemingly entranced by it. She was metres away, but just in earshot. It was the older man that the boy addressed, finally coming to rest on the man's lap, who laughed openly and ruffled the boy's hair and, almost like a father, straightened the boy's sand coated brown shirt and trousers.

"A story, young James?" he asked, in a gruff voice, "Ye want a story from your old Grandfather Bootstrap?" The lad nodded, and his Grandfather paused to think of a story he could tell. From the look on his face, he had obviously had an idea. "Well, I don't know…"

The boy's mother looked across, hearing them both go quiet. She pushed her hair, a curlier, lighter version of her son's, out of her eyes, and adjusted the yellow dress which she was obviously uncomfortable in. Elizabeth Swann had spent so little time wearing a dress before the birth of her son that she'd grown unaccustomed to the certain way you had to learn to breathe. She and the man made eye contact, and a question passed between them, to which she nodded, a small movement barely visible.

"He has to know some day, Bill." She mouthed, before returning her gaze to the ship. Her son hadn't seemed to notice her looking, his eyes glued to the round man in front of him.

"Fine," sighed the man, rolling his eyes and putting his hands in the air as if admitting defeat, "You win. I'll tell you _my _story, how about that?"

James nodded quickly, his vision going cross-eyed.

---

"Will should be here." Whispered Elizabeth, smiling softly at how well and how fast her son, James, named for the brave late James Norrington, got on with his Grandfather Turner.

Unlike James' father, who sailed full time on the same ship as his father, the amiable man James was with, Bill Turner could come on shore whenever he pleased. That, Bill had explained to Elizabeth when he had turned up earlier that morning, was Will's only regret – Not getting on shore to see her again, and, for the first time, his son. Her shoulders drooped, and she blinked back tears brimming behind her eyes. Four more years. That was all they needed to wait.

---

"Well, do you know why your father can't be here?"

James stood up and scowled, but nodded again. He traced a line in the sand with one of his bare toes, sniffing, and Bootstrap looked closed his eyes. The look was heartbreaking. He knew, and he should, that a boy needs to know his father when he's growing up. But it couldn't really be helped. He too looked out to the ship where Elizabeth was looking, his own instinct pinpointing where Will was.

Bill tickled the lad's neck, and the boy started to roar with laughter, climbing back into his Grandfather's knee, pushing his hand away with unanticipated strength. Bill laughed too, and with a start decided he was finally happy.

"Well, it all started on _The Black Pearl_…"

The water lapped against the side of the ship softly, the fury of the storm subsiding after a long night. Many a crewmen had been lost overboard, claimed by the sea's crashing waves, their bones crushed with the ease of a tomcat with a ball of yarn. Standing on the deck, the remaining pirates – along with sailors on ships across the Caribbean – thanked the heavens that mercy had been received, as the collected the scattered pieces of ship and cargo from the dripping decks.

One such ship was _The Black Pearl_, a majestic vessel with flapping black sails that earned the ship it's name. Barely a crack had tarnished the ship, and the superstitious among the crew worried that it was a bad omen, surviving in a flood of driftwood around them. The Captain, Hector Barbossa, had ordered all men to strap themselves to the ship, and despite their protests that if the ship went down so did they, the crew had agreed. After all, if their Captain was willing to cross Jack Sparrow, the previous Captain until a mere three days ago, there was no telling what he'd do in return to any man who denied his orders.

Besides, it was bad luck for a sailor to know how to swim, it only prolonged death. But sure enough, they had sailed through the storm to lose but a handful of their bountiful crewmen, and an equally small amount of the hundreds of Aztec gold coins they had recently stolen from the tomb of Cortés himself!

The men rejoiced, clapping each other on the back and congratulating their seamanship as they slid out of their bonds and stretched their beaten limbs, the wounded attended to while the rest stood to attention on the deck for a head count.

Captain Barbossa thumped down to the deck, having spent the tropical hurricane tethered to the out of control helm, proudly embracing his well-known belief that a pirate should master the seas by the sweat of their backs and the trickery of their characters, and not by the binding of the Heathen Goddess of the Sea, Calypso, who had been bound in human form by the original Brethren Court. He agreed that the sea should belong to the pirates, but not in such a manner, and to prove his point he'd sailed straight and true through the storm with the will that had earned him the rank of First Mate aboard _The Black Pearl_ to begin with. He was also tricky, having convinced Jack to give the crew the coordinates for the Isla de Muerta (host of the treasure chest) and organising a mutiny against the Captain who he felt had no right to the title.

He was just a _whelp_ when he'd become Captain six years previous, having inherited the ship when it's previous Captain had been shot during a battle with a rival pirate ship. He'd started off as the cabin boy at the tender age of ten after stowing away – and since had said nothing of his heritage. Bootstrap had taken him under his wing, teaching him – not that much of the wisdom would've sunk into the boy's arrogant head. Captain Hawkins had had a soft spot for him, that was all.

On the other hand, he had escaped the hangman's noose by escaping from under the eyes of the East India Trading Company at the age of fifteen, been recaptured at the age of twenty and escaped the noose again after releasing a so called 'cargo' of slaves he was recruited into transporting after working for the Company for a brief stint in exchange for his life, and had spent the last two years on the run with his ship, gathering with him an array of legends and stories to be told – Sacking Nassau Port without firing a single shot, impersonating a cleric of the Church of England… And in doing so he'd collected his fair share of scars: Two bullet holes in the chest, scars across his body, miscellaneous tattoos including the sparrow in flight on his right wrist, and the infamous "P" for pirate burnt mercilessly into his wrist in his teenage years by the EITC – something he was loathed to discuss. At least that was something Barbossa had to admire him for, against his better judgement. For all their crimes, no pirate would ever stoop so low as enslaving fellow men. Fewer less would defy the 'Company' to such an extent. And to come out of all it all alive was either madness or brilliance.

"Bloody Jack." Murmured Barbossa under his breath in his West Country accent, smiling _almost_ affectionately at the memory, before shaking his head and carrying on with the task at hand. "Bootstrap!" he called to his first mate, scanning the row of pirates for the young – as far as he was concerned, but he wasn't that much older – man who had taken over his place as first mate.

Bill Turner, or Bootstrap Bill, was a keen pirate, who had left England, a wife and, he'd found at a sea, causing him to take a short month's hiatus after the birth, a son, William, for a life on the sea. Although he'd been a mentor and a friend of the late – so far assumed – Jack Sparrow, he'd proved his bones more than once, and he'd sailed on and knew the ship and it's maintenance better than all of Barbossa's original crew, one of the first men to brace the chest and a strong ally in any fight.

Tall and fit, his long brown hair was matted and dripping wet, and the palms of his hands red and raw from his exhausted yet persistent grip on the sail ropes with another member of the crew throughout, and at hearing his name he stood forward, clenching his hands against the searing pain. He would live, unlike possible others.

"Aye sir."

"Losses?"

Bill reeled off a list of what had been lost over shore, including the personal belongings of some crew members who groaned at the knowledge, most of their food, a couple of cannon balls and some boons – Aztec gold, some cotton they were trading, and a little of the trinkets they'd stolen from passenger ships, The Captain listened patiently, obviously angry, yet Bootstrap's speech slowed and quietened as if, and successfully, calming the nerves of the man he stood before. One other thing he was good for. Once he'd done, he stood back into place with a brief nod, and wrapped a handkerchief round one hand and a dirty strip of cloth round another to stem the bleeding.

"That all?" asked one dreadlocked man, Koehler, sarcastically. His face was a menacing one, and he was a formidable pirate, but completely obsessed with gold.

The Captain backhanded the impertinent pirate, snapping at him. "Be happy it's no yer life ye lost, ye scabrous dog!" He turned his back on the pirates, issuing the order that they make haste for the nearest port or he might change his mind, and his instructions were briskly followed, but not without mutterings of the rumours that men who had fallen overboard in the gale had emerged unharmed later on that night.

---

"I wan' depth soundin'!" ordered Barbossa, scratching the back of his neck under his hat as he weaved between his crew, each carrying out their orders.

Just under a week later, as the sun rose, they had arrived in the port of Isle de Vache, and with a cheer the men tied up at the pier and demanded their earnings – for services rendered and/or limbs lots – heading straight for the taverns and various small houses in the quest for drink, food and pleasurable company, pleased by the extra gold (Aztec) they had received from their latest success.

Some of the crew looked up, but eventually a short bald man nodded, and went to fetch the heavy lead weight to tie to a length of rope that measured the depth.

They lowered the topsails and crept into the small harbour, bit by bit. The short journey was split by shouts of depth.

"Fifteen fathoms. Eleven. Eight."

At five fathoms, close to being grounded, Hector called for an able man who could quickly travel the last metres to shore. Koehler handed the end of the rope to his companion, and took some steps back, expertly jumping over the gap and grabbing hold of the pier. He scrambled up, and stood to catch another length of thickly coiled rope, which he tied to the pier to hold them in place. The anchor was lowered, and two planks of wood laid tip to tip as _The Black Pearl_ came to a halt.

The crew were anxious to get onto dry land. The lot of them had all been inundated by the same nightmare since their raid on the Aztec Gold in the Isla de Muerta, they could only assume from bad food. Koehler had been especially violent with Bootstrap, blaming him, because he had been in charge of checking the losses after the storm, for the food being ruined. His slight limp was a side effect of the lashes he'd received for attempting to harm a fellow crewmen without good reason whilst at sea.

The nightmare was a strange one, and indistinguishable whether they were asleep or awake. Most of the men, the ones who hadn't refused to leave the cabins after the incidents, had been experiencing strange things. Anything they ate or drank seemed to satisfy them less and less each night. Some men even asserted that they were forever hungry and their throats parched with thirst. Only a handful, although experiencing the same symptoms, had kept quiet, Barbossa and Bill for example. But even stranger things had happened.

There had been very few days where the moon had shone, and on these rare occasions the moon had barely graced _The Black Pearl_ with it's shining face. But when it did, those on deck claimed to have seen themselves and their peers portrayed as Hellish skeletons, and two shaken young men, the most spooked on the ship, and the first off it when they came into port (many believed they wouldn't be seen on the ship again) said they had seen Captain Barbossa's monkey, unofficially christened Jack, as a carcass. Captain Hector Barbossa was adamant that they were all hallucinating, and had cut down on the rum allowance temporarily much to the crew's disgust, but there were whispers that he himself had never been out in the moonlight.

When Jack had first been told about the treasure, he had been warned of a curse.

Almost a hundred years before, when Columbus came to the Caribbean, he brought with him blood and death. Men followed him from Europe, men like Cortés, and they killed and killed, and took what belonged to the islanders as their own. The natives got angry – justifiably so, as Jack pointed out – but they knew that the Spanish were stronger, and had much better arsenal, so they offered them treasure, to appease their greed, to stop the killing, eight hundred and eight two pieces of gold. But the natives had never set eyes on the gold, and the gold was not there's to give, and any man who stole the gold, as the men did, would be cursed, punished forever. So Cortés buried the chest on an island you cannot find if you do not know where it is – Isla de Muerta.

Jack'd relayed this warning onto every member of his crew, and not one of them, himself included, had believed a word of it, until now. They believed in gold, they believed in freedom, they believed in the sea. Pirates, well known, for a being a superstitious lot, had a belief that sailing with a woman was bad luck, but as Jack pointed out it had never done _The Pearl _any trouble. Although pirates had a habit of blasting everything out of proportion, to the extent that some men began suggest that every word they had been told was true. And the more buccaneers who reheard the stories, with the fresh evidence, the more buccaneers there were who believed they were cursed.

So the men were grateful for new food and more rum and less swaying.

Barbossa, Bootstrap Bill, and two ungainly pirates, the youngest on the ship after the cabin boy and the two men who had scarpered, named Pintel and Ragetti, the latter in possession of one eye and one wooden eye, stayed behind reluctantly, under orders to fulfil various tasks before they set sail.

"…And Bill, go and trade what survived of the storm – ALL of it – for food and drink." Finished Hector, doling out their money and the money needed for their tasks, as Pintel and Ragetti stormed off in a childish huff in search of rope and sail material.

"Bloody storm." Muttered Ragetti, rubbing his wooden eye, "Makes me eye all itchy, it did, and curses too."

"Well stop rubbin' it then." Mollycoddled Pintel, pushing his companions hand away from his eye and silencing him with a glare. It did good not to mention curses in front of Barbossa.

They rounded a corner as Barbossa stopped Bootstrap before he could follow them.

"Lad, will ye bring an old man back some strong drink on yer travels?" he hinted, with a raised eyebrow and a commanding grin, putting his hand on Bill's shoulder.

It'd been the Captain's rota to guard the ship, at least for the next four hours, but the men had been promised some extra time on shore-leave, for services rendered, Not that he minded staying on board, he needed the quiet, but he wouldn't have minded some good ale in a good pub. And he truly needed to clear his head.

Bill froze, ready to throw the man's coarse hand off his shoulder in disgust, but held back his thoughts wisely, and smiled cheerfully in return.

"Yes'sir, we all need it for sure." He agreed, waiting for the grasp to loosen before swinging down onto the wooden pier with a Jack-Sparrow-like mannerism, heading into town, clasping the three ancient gold coins tight.

Barbossa frowned at the uncanny resemblance to Jack, before turning back into the Captain's cabin, leaving Bill alone on the pier. The latter kept stopping and staring at the hand holding the gold, as if deciding what to do with it. Part of him, the pirate within him, was directing him like the stars to spend it, to do something before he became petrified or fell asleep. His gut instinct told him otherwise, told him, unlike the opinion he had set forward amongst those on the ship, that the gold _was _cursed, and he couldn't fight the feeling that they all deserved to be so for what they had done.

His part in the mutiny against Captain Jack Sparrow had been accidental in a manner of speaking, he had never intended to strand his friend without any chance. He'd been shanghaied. Nevertheless, it had been Bill who had convinced Jack to hand over the coordinates. It had been Bill who had put the pistol to his mate's back, keeping him from escaping as the others ganged up on him. It had been Bill who had stood by Hector's side and not where he should've been by Jack's as the plank had been lowered into place, and the condemned man forced down it. You could tell from the boy's expression that he had been shaken that day – Not only had the crew he had grown to trust, he'd been such a reckless lad it had to be admitted, betrayed him, but he was being marooned instead of flat out murdered (although anyone who knew him would wonder if Jack would prefer the scenario where his life lasted longest) and at dawn, when the island, for lack of a better word, he was being marooned on could only been seen from where they were anchored if you were standing on the very rim of the ship, holding out a lantern at arm's length and leaning in the right direction. An embarrassing experience as well, Jack's much loved hat, coat and boats had been taken off him, a first to the best of Bill's knowledge within pirates, and he had been left with only his trousers, and a pistol with one bullet and just enough powder, as was customary.

Jack, typically, had to go down with a bang. With a contemptuous salute with his bound hands and a wink to Barbossa, and a betrayed frown at Bill, he dived into the sea after his pistol (Barbossa had suspected Jack as crazy enough to try and shoot one of them after walking the plank unless his powder was useless). Crewmen all round had cheered when he failed to resurface within the minute, with the exception of the newly appointed Captain and First Mate, but the one man standing on the very rim of the ship, holding out a lantern at arm's length and leaning in the right direction caught a glimpse of the tell-tale red bandana pop out of the water after a crazily long time and, after half the crew had exchanged places to see for themselves, collapse, as far as it looked, on the God-forsaken spit of land christened an island. Governor Sparrow, they'd decided to call him.

Bill would never forgive himself.

Which was how he had ended up outside the mail office, in a queue of sailors waiting to send back treasures and letters to loved ones. Mostly Royal Navy soldiers, they held meticulously enveloped letters, or cradled packages of conical shells and handmade souvenirs, some were even foolish enough to be guarding bags of earnings to send back to needy families. Bill felt out of place with his scrawny letter written on the first piece of paper he had managed to get his hands on, shrouded in another sheet folded and tied around it with a knot of string he usually used to hold back his steadily lengthening brown hair, and the sole piece of Aztec gold he had taken from around his neck, looping the chain it hung from around the coin a couple times to keep it from tangling, and packaged into the make-shift envelope between two sheets. He had also been marginally worried for his safety, being surrounded by so many of the enemy. But it been apparent from the firsts second that he got into line that he would be ranked as a man, not by his profession, and that their reflections were on other matters at any rate.

When his turn came, he cautiously showed the old lady at the 'desk' his package. Expecting to have a price barked out, to trade, and then to be on his way, he turned red when the woman stared at him expectantly.

Behind him an older navy man cleared his throat understandingly. "First time posting from the island?"

Bill nodded sheepishly.

"They weigh what you're sending, that way you pay less if you're sending less, and vice versa."

"Ah."

Handing over the package, the woman returned him an impatient sigh, and after what felt like an eternity told him the hideous price he had been expecting. The coin wasn't exactly light baggage. He forked over the money slowly. Was this really what he wanted to do? Did he really want to be cursed for eternity? He was just being superstitious, that was all.

Bill's plan was simple. One, they all deserved to be cursed, if in fact they were, for their crimes against Jack. Two, if the gold was the key like many of the men were saying, then getting rid of the gold would either break the curse or censure them to a _lifetime_ of it. Three, sending it to his family as a gift would result in either. He could only hope it wouldn't curse his family, since it wasn't them who had stolen it in the first place. Right, so it wasn't that simple, Bill thought to himself.

Tapping her fingers at increasing speed on the counter, the wrinkled old lady sighed exaggeratedly. The other people in the queue also seemed impatient, muttering to themselves behind Bill's back, some even leaving their belongings and the fee with friends and leaving. Raising his eyebrows, Bill Turner took the plunge, handed over the cursed parcel, then waited politely for the man behind him to post his painstakingly written love letter (Bill could tell from the gentle way he passed it over with an unlikely fond smile not unlike the ray of bliss he and Elsie shared). He himself echoed the grin, looking at nothing in particular, until a hand was held out in front of him.

"Guy Norrington." Guy shook Bootstrap's hand. "Admiral." He added.

"Bill Turner." Pirate. "Blacksmith."

"A good trade, and a much sought after skill." Commented Guy, as they both walked deeper into town.

Bill nodded. "Puts food in yer mouth."

"Do you work alone or for someone else."

"Bit o' both, back in Portsmouth." He laughed awkwardly, "You might say I'm taking a short break from employment to see the world."

"From Bristol myself." Guy hummed with interest, and they continued through the small island port, passing the time up to the crossroads they were due to split at talking about whatever came to hand.

"Do you have any family?" Guy asked, catching Bill by surprise. It wasn't the sort of question you usually asked.

"A wife. Elsie – I'd die for her. And a son. William. Fourteen years and counting."

Guy seemed pleased. It was obviously a topic he could sink his teeth into. "I've been married nigh on thirty years, to the most beautiful girl in England, Jane Culms. Our son, James, plans to join the Royal Navy like me. He's twenty three now, working his passage on a ship bound here, to the Caribbean, so he can get some experience. Heard even pirates like some of that nowadays."

Bill didn't comment on the discourteous manner that Guy had dismissed pirates with. He didn't feel the need to use so many words either.

"Do you see them a lot?"

"Not as much as I'd like to."

"Aye. Me neither."

---

Koehler and a red-headed French-speaking pirate whose name no one had worked out had gone off on their own, like many other groups of pirates who got on well, and were soon in search of a good place for a drink. Although their minds were on the prize, their conversation was of curses and Bootstrap. Koehler was finding the discussion difficult, and it showed on his face, as he understood less French than the Frenchman understood English.

"Parlez-vous Francais?" repeated the Frenchman, for the eighth time that day, after struggling to understand the other pirate's question about where he thought Bootstrap's loyalties laid.

"Non." Replied Koehler, sardonically.

---

Meanwhile, Ragetti had found the local market, and Pintel's time was being spent trying to get out of it. For such a small village, he was surprised how many markets could be crammed into one place if you did so with no space to walk between them. This resulted in any sale being made in the middle of the market involving people yelling from one end to the other, and then the item in question being passed down the tables under it reached it's new owner. Needless to say, theft was high, even for a place pirates regularly stopped. They'd been informed by a do-gooder that the stalls thinned out as the day went by, but one particular stall had caught Ragetti's eye before Pintel got a chance to strategically move in the way of it.

Wooden eyes. Row, upon row, of wooden eyes. And Pintel failed to notice any difference between his pal's eye and the ones on display, except for the fact that Ragetti's had been a rare gift from Captain Barbossa and these cost more than a shiny penny, but he didn't want to hurt his friend's feelings.

"Look at'em!" breathed Ragetti in awe, his eye plastered to the jar, "I've never seen anyfin' like'em!"

"Obviously ye haven't bin around much then." Grumbled Pintel mutedly, changing his song as Ragetti looked up, having not heard the reply properly, "I said yeah."

Ragetti seemed to approve. "How much d'ye think it'd be?" He took the brown leather-like bag off his belt, and peered in forlornly. Even the small black beetle, which Ragetti threw away disgustedly, found the sum of money pathetic.

"You look like an intelligent man, Sir?" approached the man behind the 'counter', winking at Ragetti and waving a hand at his second-rate eyeballs. "Special supply, straight from Jamaica, hand made these are. You have that look in your…" he paused, "Eye, I can tell you're an educated gentleman, and us educated gentlemen could tell that _this_:" He picked up one eye seemingly randomly, "Is the eye for you.

Ragetti turned around to ask his friend's opinion. "Pint, what –"

'Pint' had gone.

---

"An' I said to him, I sai' – 'You can' do tha', tha's ma ship!' an' I smackt 'im one, I did…"

Bootstrap shook his head with a light grin at the drunk on the table opposite him, letting the man's boast of single handily taking on four men wash over him as he returned his attention to the tankard of rum clasped between his shivering hands. Aye, it might've been a warm day in the Caribbean, but not warm enough to fully dry the wet clothes the crew all boasted – not to the complaints of some, anyway. Although he curiously didn't feel cold, he knew by rights he should, and they all knew that if they caught ill they'd be as much use as a hanged man. He took a sip of the hot beverage, his grin widening, although he sat alone, money in a bag tied with too much string to his belt hanging under the table, so as not to be stolen. He'd be at the hands of the Captain if he didn't bring back the supplies he'd been sent for. Sure, he hadn't quite done as he'd been ordered, instead selling their trades and readying to barter off the street market what was needed, seeing as the other traders were in the same position.

The storyteller fell off the table, landing in a drunken heap on the floor, to be thrown by the crowd into the pig's pen just outside the bar, where he seemed content to tell his stories to the hogs, and it was then that they arrived. Three undeniably beautiful young woman, barely nineteen and barely dressed, served up just as the men liked it. Their entrance was greeted by wolf whistling, claps and cheers of names (Scarlet, did he hear one being called?) that led Bill to understand they made a regular appearance in the place. A couple of _The Black Pearl_ crew, excluding Bill, joined in the ruckus, crowding around them as they chose a table to sit at – for the time being.

He blushed bright red, as he saw two of the girls nudge the other and point to his table, and made an exaggerated point of studying the bottom of his tankard, nose almost touching the murky brown liquid, but they came over, inviting themselves to pull up chairs and sit. He glanced up, catching sight of a barely concealed bosom with a smile, but didn't react, despite the boos and sighs from the other men. Two crew members he recognised – Twigg, a scarred, more unwashed than the rest pirate, and (unfortunately) Koehler – joined him, nodding gratefully and launching into how well they knew the fine gentlemen opposite, but _he_ had a _wife_, and fortunately _they_ of course _didn't_.

Bill smiled, the memories of Elsie flooding back to him as he took a more free chug of his drink. It seemed like only yesterday he'd met her, and after a couple years of matrimonial bliss the news had reached him of how she'd borne him a son, a bounding rough-and-tumble just like his father. William Turner, named after his father, or Will for short. He'd automatically taken leave of the ship to see his son, three by the time the news reached him, and had been torn to leave them both when he'd rejoined _The Black Pearl_, and even more to lie to them. Her brown eyes looked so blue when he told her his shipbuilding trade were moving him to the new English settlements in the Caribbean for a while, yet she'd put on a brave face on her pronounced, round features, and that night had been heaven, and the last he had to remember her by. He only hoped sweet, good hearted Elsie Pott and Will – a boy after his own heart who wanted only to be just like his father, were safe and well.

As he thought, it didn't occur to him that he'd ordered not only his second, but his third and fourth drink, and that his tongue was running away with him, loosing control of the helm. If he'd looked out the window, he would've noticed that the sun was beginning to set (they'd been out all day, save for the cabin boy who had been sent back with the Captain's draught) and that the clouds were covering the rising moon. He began to flirt with one of the women, a.. cuddly young thing not unlike a rather less modest Elsie at her age, and before long his arm was around her waist, he was no longer shy, and all his worries were over. And yes, he was calm, he was happy – in a way – but the tongue has a curious way of letting slip thoughts it shouldn't when a man is drunk.

"I'm a pirate, I am." Boasted Bootstrap Bill Turner, grinning like a jackal, "A belludy good un' an' all. But our Captain, 'e's one _Hell_ of a pirate. Marooned a man three days ago, he did." He hiccupped, taking a gulp of rum, or whatever it was, and continued slurring his words to the awed girls rather loudly. "But I don't think 'e was right. Jack Sparrow was a good lad, shapin' up ter be a good pirate Captain. Naïve he was, aye, but he didun deserve it, he didun." He gazed solemnly into his empty mug, then raised his arm in a toast. "To Captain Jack Sparrow!"

"To Captain Jack Sparrow!" returned all three girls with a giggle, the lad's reputation having somewhat preceded him anyway, as the marginally less intoxicated Koehler and Twigg exchanged disparaging looks. Something would have to be done about this…

"Barbossa, 'e likes me y'know? An' he's a wonder at the 'elm – wheel – but what a stupid thing to do! I – I…" He slumped down into his chair against thegirl, his heavy breathing melting into a nigh-silent snore.

---

'_Elsie…'_

_Thump! _Waking up, Bill realised he was now lying on the stone floor of the tavern, and that he, and the fuming barman, were the only two inside. Both girls were gone, not even a sultry scent to betray they'd been there, and so were his crewmates. Groaning, he tried to remember what had happened last night, but it was all a blur – he couldn't even remember coming into _The Briny Meg_ as the sign, a piece of driftwood from a shipwreck years ago, over the door informed him.

"Did I really drink that much?" he mused, massaging his temples and patting his emptier pocket, much emptier than it had been before his sleep, as he left the pub and made his way to the market, which mercifully was open all night.

---

"And tha's when ol' Bootstrap passed out, Cap'n." explained Twigg eagerly, practically rubbing his hands with glee,

Koehler was more subdued, but the glint in his eye was just as menacingly eager. "Aye. Blastin' yer name all o'er the pub, he was." He paused to hiccup quietly, his own drunken state barely worn off. He was cracking his knuckles behind his back, much to Hector's annoyance, but he hadn't noticed so far,

"Was 'e now…" mused the last man, Captain Barbossa, a calculating controlled anger brimming behind his features, his hand scratching his chin beneath his scraggly long since trimmed beard. "And now, and lemme put this into words yer simple men can understand, pray tell – Where be Turner now?" He raised an eyebrow, wrinkling his nose at the odour of their breath. He refrained from mentioning that he'd been able to _stop _drinking the night before.

Twigg opened his mouth to open answer, and closed it again like a guppy, much to the enjoyment of Ragetti – who still seemed infuriated at Pintel for walking away – and Pintel – who seemed amused at the fact that Ragetti had met him again with the same eye – two of the many pirates crowded around the table with the trio to hear the story.

Koehler broke the silence, shrugging. "We left 'im there."

"…Ye what?" demanded Barbossa, in disbelief.

"They left 'im there." Explained another man, raising his hand meekly from behind. He was a newer member of the crew. Barbossa rolled his eyes with pronounced effort, stretching his arms behind him and tapping the man over the head offhandedly with his spyglass.

"Aye, I worked that out."

The rising sun seemed to mirror the mood of the ship and the look of contempt Hector gave his crew – Blazing. He stormed across the deck, standing above the ramp and squinting into the bright light without even gracing them with a reply. The deck groaned warily, the rigging lashing out as it picked up the growing whisper of a wind reaching the harbour. He had some thinking to do, and a betrayer to find.

---

Bill's eyes widened sceptically, his hands in the air as he bargained with the last vendor.

"You found the silk in your cellar?"

"Clear as day." Protested the balding man, hands in his pockets and a blade of marram grass between his teeth.

His waistcoat and brown trousers were tattered beyond repair, and Bootstrap made a point of _not _looking down again. The man didn't seem to notice, and smiled the same toothless grin he'd been giving each man he'd attempted to sell the over-priced stolen scarlet silk to.

The pirate sighed, cursing himself inwardly. The man sure needed it. Maybe he had a family – and apart from anything else his family didn't deserve that sight every day – and in a most unpiratey way he forked over the last of the money they had for the last thing on their list, more supplies. The silk wasn't in too bad a nick, nothing a creative crop wouldn't fix.

Almost throwing the relieved man his shillings, Bill winced as the arguments of the morning caught up with him and his headache. His head was only letting him remember snippets of what had happened, and none of them explained how he'd managed to get such a headache in the first place! Needless to say, as a pirate he'd had his fair share of drunken nights, but he'd never woken up on the floor before, - In fact, he was usually the one who escorted, dragged or carried home the men who did or almost had. He added the large roll of silk to his collection of innings, and started the trek back to the ship, intending to get there before the streets were filled.

He succeeded, barely. The last few minutes had been spent weaving between women collecting their escaped chickens, men off to make a living, and children walking through the forest of legs with their hands cupped and defeatist looks on their faces. You learnt to ignore them all. What surprised him, however, was the Captain waiting on the ship, pacing the wooden planks back and forth. He glanced back at the clock tower. No, he wasn't that late, only ten minutes or so. So what was all the trouble?

Stepping nimbly over a tuft of yellow grass poking out through the stone cobbles of the harbour, he hadn't the last two shillings to the dock master, mentally ticking off the last of his chores as he carefully carried the items onto the ship, depositing them onto the deck where two men ran to collect them and tally them before packing them into the brig. He stopped short of reporting to Barbossa at the pathetic, secretive grins they shared, the shorter man nodding his head in Bootstrap's direction. What _was _going on? To begin with, almost all the crew was on deck – Bootstrap noted that the two rattled young men hadn't returned.

He approached the Captain, standing oddly to attention.

"That's it all. Sorry I'm late." He said, questioningly, "Don't know what happened last night." He laughed openly, the laugh shared shortly after by his Captain, who put his arm around Bill's shoulder brotherly like and walked him across the deck. Bootstrap stopped laughing, freezing like a corpse.

Something was definitely wrong. That was the same look and laugh Barbossa had shared with Jack's strategy-less pleas before he had been marooned. The Captain worked that way – You were his best friend, right up till the bitter end. "Captain?"

"It's an interestin' story, _Bill_." Hector mocked wiping a tear of laughter from his eye, ignoring Bootstrap Bill Turner. "What happened last night. I've heard some stories."

A flash of memory hit Bill_ – His arm around Elsie… Elsie?! No, a wee strumpet with Elsie's hair, and he was shouting something. He couldn't make out what, but it sounded derisive. Honest… Something about the Captain. Oh _no

"I – I didun' know what I was saying!" objected Bootstrap, paying attention to the gaggling circlet of pirates the Captain was walking him towards, and not to who wasn't there, and the movement of the ship as they left the safety of the harbour at a surprising speed. "I was drunk, ev'ry'man rambles when they're in that state." He put his hand to his head, closing his eyes on the overtaking pain. He shot Barbossa a hopeful look. "You understand, righ'?"

"Of course, of course!" reassured Barbossa, his arm recoiling as the pirates closed in on the desperate looking Bill.

"Here Bootstrap!" Whistled Koehler, causing Bootstrap to almost topple himself over as he swivelled on his heels to address the speaker, "Wha'd'ye have ter say?"

"You didun mean it?" asked Alpert, a gruff retired hat-maker turned pirate, behind him, grinning maliciously as Bootstrap turned to face _him,_ turning his back on the advancing row beside Koehler.

"It was a joke?" Pintel this time. Spinning around again, getting steadily dizzier and dizzier to the extent of not even noticing how closely packed in they were.

"Or do ye have a soft spot for Jack'O?" Twigg butted in, pushing his way to the front of the crowd.

The accusations were flying, and Bill had long since given up fighting his case. He couldn't tell where he was, his night had caught up with him and the motion of keeping up with the looming pirates hungry, quite possibly, for his blood, disorientating him no end.

"Please, Hector!" he pleaded, falling to his knees, his head in his head, "Help me!"

"I'm disinclined to acquiesce to your request." Elucidated Barbossa, having somehow emerged directly in front of his fallen first mate, crouched down in front of him. He caught Bootstrap's chin in his calloused hand, angling his face up to look at him. "I'm curious, what are your views on Jack Sparrow's mutiny?" He made the question sound painfully casual.

Bill growled under his breath, shaking his chin out of the other man's grasp with a snap. "Bastard!"

Even Barbossa seemed taken aback. The crew all gasped childishly, involuntarily taking a step back. The more sinister of them chuckled, bracing themselves for a lashing.

"He didn't deserve that, you cheated him of the charts, his ship, his life!" There was no stopping Bill Turner now, "You went against the Code marooning him, he had done nothing wrong, he had the best days of his life ahead of him! What if he'd been my William, or what if he was _your _son? The lad had earned his right to Captain, Jim Hawkins," not pausing as he quickly made the sign of the cross across his chest in respect Bill continued, "Gave him his piece of eight during the raid when he got shot, and the ship. Along. With it!" He dropped his voice. "He trusted you. And look where that trust got him. "You're a cold-hearted, swindling murderer!"

Barbossa frowned. Two things. Jack had a piece of eight… He, too, _was_ a Pirate Lord? Barbossa gave Ragetti a sideways glance, particularly focusing on his wooden eye, making the gangly man shuffle his feet uncomfortably. Yet another thing Jack hadn't told most of his crew, but seeing as there hadn't been a Brethren Court since the binding of the Sea Goddess, Calypso, it was unlikely Jack's piece of eight, whatever it was, would be missed.

Second, he didn't like being called a swindler. And as for being a murderer, well, Sparrow was still alive when they left, wasn't he? QED : He hadn't directly murdered Jack. But his face stayed otherwise devoid of emotion, neither anger nor cheerful acceptance.

He put up a hand to hold back the crew. "So what you're saying is, you don't agree with me mutiny, but that ye be thinking mutinous thinks yersel'?"

Bootstrap nodded with a defeatist manner, unable to make eye contact. He hadn't thought of it that way.

"Gentlemen, show Bootstrap to his _accommodation._"

The crew cackled. Two of the hyenas, Twigg, and a stocky tattooed man stepped forward, disappointment on their faces, and frog-marched the limp man down a flight of slightly splintered stairs, into a small, barred 'room' in the brig. The tattooed man noticed with a grimace the thin muddy rat run across Bootstrap's quarters, and made sure not to step on it. Twigg, now the only remaining pirate half dragging their prisoner, was less careful with Bill, who didn't seem to care much anyway.

The rat scuttled away in fright, wondering again what possessed humans to throw each other around if they didn't like them very much, especially when they insisted on throwing them around in his home. Bill hadn't seemed to notice him, but from the look on his face he could've been buried in a hundred rats teeming with plague and he wouldn't have known. With a cough from the dust gathering, enough to give a man a tuberculosis like hack.

Pintel and Ragetti had followed the three men down, whilst the rest of the crew returned to work, considering how eerily fast they had made it out to sea again, and stood back warily to let Twigg and his companion pass before prancing down to speak to Bootstrap. Pintel lent nonchantly on the bars of the cage, examining his yellow fingernails with apparent interest.

"So Bootstrap, how's yer stay in the finest o' fine rooms?"

"For breakfast, lunch and dinner," added Ragetti, licking his lips at the thought, "Ye'll enjoy a three course meal of sea water, bread and wood, with an optional side order o' rat." He pointed his head at the creature, almost as scraggly as he was, watching and waiting for the noisier humans to leave.

Ragetti put his hands around the bars, and leaned in for a closer look, as though examining a specimen in a gallery. "Hope ye enjoy yer stay." He seemed nearly, not quite but nearly, apologetic, as he lowered his voice and asked "What did yer say anyhows?" He was serious now.

Bill looked up at the pair with a roll of his eyes despite his situation. "I said," he explained, careful to use flawless language, "that Barbossa was wrong to maroon Jack, and that I thought he was an idiot to do so."

Pintel nodded, thinking it over. That, and for him to say it was quite the criticism, was stupid. It was as if he _wanted _what Barbossa had planned for him. When Bootstrap had been dismissed, Barbossa had a riotous crew to deal with. Everyone wanted to know why Bill wasn't at the bottom of the ocean, with a lead bullet in the head. Why he was getting away with badmouthing the Captain and doubting his actions. His voice was so soothing, his suggestions so tempting, that the crew soon shut up. The plan would take place in the dead of night, after lulling Bootstrap into a false sense of security. It was a good plan. That, thought Pintel, was why he was a good Captain. The right amount of 'honest pirating', merciless plans, and the fact that he was, in most cases, but Pintel was never sure if this was a good thing or a bad thing, everything Captain Jack was not.

"That was clever." Pointed out Ragetti unhelpfully, distracting his best friend.

"Now how did you work out that one?" asked Bill acerbically, his voice laced with the shadow of an angered snarl.

Ragetti looked pained. "Be like tha'." He mumbled, wontedly, tapping Pintel on the shoulder as he climbed the stairs back on deck, where Alpert could be heard shouting about where they had got to.

---

Bill sat in the rotting brig for what felt like years. But he could tell from the marks he'd made in the wall in charcoal that it had only been twenty-two days by his count of nights, although there'd been no sight of the moon in result to some sailor placing a wide barrel in front of his 'window' and no one coming to move it. Twenty-two days, however, in the middle of November, was a long time. Much to his surprise, after Pintel and Ragetti had left, bread and water _had _been brought – well, thrown – down for him, but after that he hadn't seen a living soul (he couldn't help but wish for even a morsel of the meat he had acquired this morning). He'd heard what had gone on though, the hurried movements of the crew as they spent the first day tacking with Barbossa at the helm, an exhausting feat in itself, after that it had all been background noise. At least, he managed to think cheerfully, his headache had worn off entirely, so much so that he finally realised how much damage he had done. But it had also brought him a sense of peace of mind. He knew he'd done the right thing, and despite being a pirate when all was said and done he was glad his last action had been that.

As he put his head down against a coil of rope, maxim as it sounded, happy to be alive, he was awoken by the thundering of the crew coming down into his 'accommodation'. His eyes narrowed, his fists clenched. He stood up, shaking out his stiff legs. Prepping himself for a fight not for his life, that was long forfeit, but merely for the right to go down a free man. He intended to jump over board – He could swim unlike everyone on the ship bar it's current Captain and it's previous one, maybe he had a chance. He had a wife, and a bouncing young son, to get back to alive. Damned if he was never going to see his son grow up!

_Click._ The metal door swung open with goading ease. In Bill's previous, rarely spoken-of profession as a blacksmith, his mentor had taught him how that sort of lock worked and, after much persuasion, embarrassingly how to break out it. It was painfully easy; Of course only if you had the right tools. Which the old pirate did not. And unfortunately he couldn't fly out the small window either.

The last pirate to descend the stairs didn't surprise him: The Captain wasn't here himself. That, however, was the only steadfast piece of the puzzle of _why _they were all here, and why his cell had been unlocked in the first place.

"Out." Barked Alpert, pointing a pathetic excuse for revolver at the prisoner's chest.

To be honest, he didn't even know why he bothered. Bootstrap wasn't exactly going to try anything with the whole crew of _The Black Pearl_ surrounding him, and even if he did a bullet in the chest was going to be as much use as fire underwater. Not that he would know that – Yet.

"Avast! An' don' go tryin' anyfin'!" added the cabin boy, a youngster Jack 'Had picked up rather reluctantly in Tortuga'. 'Rather reluctantly found' being the fondly used subtle equivalent of 'Found in the brig having stowed away because his prostitute mother happened to recognise Jack while in Tortuga'. He was eager to be in on the action now, because he'd been forced to stay behind at the Isla de Muerta.

Various faces turned to stare at the lad, who took a step back. With a collective shrug and a groan, the murderous pirates turned back to Bootstrap, who had already done as was told and was standing between the shut door and the mass.

"Now up." Alpert continued to shout out commands as they ascended the stairs and into the bright, vindictive moonlight.

Bootstrap yelled in terror against his will at the sight that greeted him as all the men congressed on the deck. It didn't seem to rattle them quite as much.

So the stories were true. Every man who had been involved in the raid on the Heathen Gods' gold in the cave at the Isla de Muerta was a cursed man. Raising his hands in front of his eyes and letting them travel down his body, he confirmed his fear and suspicion that he was too. His clothes looked like rags, no, _were _rags, but that was the only resemblance he bore to a human being. There was only scorched bones, devoid of any signs of life, and only one (wooden) eye between them – How they could see was beyond Bill. Some of the bones were stained red, and a couple of bullets lay on the floor or nestled in a ribcage, but none of the men seemed to be in any pain. But when one stepped into the shadows, they returned to normal, albeit for the dangerous thirst and hunger not for his death, but for everyday necessities such as food and water. Bill had wondered why he'd felt hungry after every measly so called chunk of food he had been given – It wasn't feeding him, or quenching his thirst, in that way he'd experienced the same torture as they had, but unlike them had missed out on the explanation.

"We deserve it." Was all he came up with in the end, "Every single one of us." What scared him the most was not the consequence itself but his acceptance of it.

"We deserved Hell?!" demanded Koehler, physically held back by the Frenchman and Twigg from throttling Bill. He took a deep breath, but kept the angry tone. "Why?"

"Our eyes were bigger'th'n our stomachs. We'd been warned that the gold was dangerous, and we didun listen – Like magpies," he ignored the blank looks from those pirates who had never heard of a magpie, "We wanted more and more gold. We even mutinied an innocent man, for a bigger portion of the gold ourselves."

Many of the crew, although impatient to put the plan into action, agreed. Not that they deserved to be cursed, but that they'd been greedy, even for pirates. Some even took a step back from Bill guiltily, but were pushed back by the more fervent crew members who felt no remorse.

Bill braked. He wasn't sure how to put the next bit.

"I wanted the gold too, so much so that I would do anything. I'm just as much ter blame as the rest o' ye. But we deserve to rot in Hell for the… Consequences we went through to get to it."

Any pirate who might have been agreeing with him up till that moment now wasn't.

"Just shoot 'im!" yelled the bosun, "Shoot 'im and be done wi' it!"

Bootstrap closed his eyes, mumbling a prayer under his breath hastily, while one pirate did as he was told. Shot.

"Hold yer fire!" hollered Barbossa, crossing the deck from the Captain's cabin in three long strides and parting the crowd with a touch. "I said hold yer fire!" He froze, like the rest of his crew, in front of Bootstrap, who seemed to be the most shocked of them all.

Having been pushed backwards by the force of the shot at such a close range, both his hands were firm against the bullet hole to stem the fresh blood coming from his stomach. But there wasn't any – Or rather, there was, but it wasn't flowing any longer, because Bill had stumbled into the moonlight again. He moved his hands away, and seemed lost for words.

"That's interestin'…" Hector Barbossa broke the silence, grimacing uncharacteristically. "Gents? It seems we have a need for a change of plan." Calmly, he turned to face Koehler.

"Koehler." He turned to the left, "Twigg. An old cannon, if ye please."

"Right, a ca – What?" Twigg repeated the demand, looking at Koehler for backup.

"A cannon…" agreed Koehler, squinting, as he and Twigg went down into the hold.

It was all Barbossa could do not to put his head in his hands. Exactly how had he managed to hire some of these men as a crew? He took a deep breath, looking at Bootstrap's chest with interest. So they couldn't die. Was that really such a bad thing? His thoughts were in turmoil. Yes: If they couldn't die, did that mean they would never die? Never grow old? Well, that wasn't so bad. But what if they _could, did _grow old, but couldn't die. Older, and older, and older, not able to eat, to drink, to feel…. Rotting away, but never passing away. Truly they were cursed men after all.

"Bill – "

"How does it feel?" interrupted Ragetti, his voice less than a whisper but still audible to the crew. He pointed rudely at where the bullet should have been, but wasn't.

"Nothing." Replied Bootstrap. "It feels like nothing." His voice was shaky.

"Well it's gotta feel like something!" prompted Pintel, awed, "Surely it feels like something."

Bill fell quiet, thinking of an answer. Like the rest of the crew, he too seemed to have forgotten that they were planning to kill him. "Like not being able to see, hear, taste, feel or smell."

"I like it. Simple, easy to remember." Commented Ragetti, cynically.

Bootstrap glowered, and was about to snap back when Koehler and Twigg emerged dragging a small cannon behind them. Panting heavily, they dragged it over to the crowd and dropped inelegantly, causing the Frenchman, Alpert and all the men around them to wince as the whole deck rumbled. Barbossa raised his hand to hit them, but thought better of it, and instead shot them a look of such utter disdain that they shrank back into the crowd.

"Quel maintenant?" enquired the Frenchman, looking at Alpert expectantly.

A short pirate with cannon-fuses threaded into his ratty beard, who spoke more French than the rest, shrugged, blushing a faint shade of red as everyone waited for his translation. "What now?" he suggested, unhopefully.

Barbossa nodded, a calculating grin crossing his face. "Plan B." He waved a hand in Bill's direction, to which a pair of pirates grabbed the now struggling man under the armpits and dragged him after Barbossa, who was pushing the cannon backwards towards the port edge. The rest of the crew hurried to the edge as well, some looking over the side at the crashing water below as if expecting to see something there. Others were more subdued, and waited on their tiptoes for their Captain to explain. There was, needless to say, nothing in the water except the water, but they were incredibly far out to sea, and the bottom of the ocean was entirely out of sight, at least half a mile deep by Pintel's 'educated' guess.

"You're going to make him walk like Jack!" exclaimed Ragetti, clicking the fingers of his right hand.

Barbossa smacked his forehead. "Of course, why didun' I think of tha'?!" He rolled his eyes, and when he moved his hand he was grinning more maliciously, "I've got a much better idea."

Ragetti seemed confused at the contradictions. However, Bill, and some others, were beginning to put two and two together (or deux et deux). Bill kicked out at the shins of one of his oppressors, who dodged expertly and tightened his grip. But his companion lost his balance, and hence his hold. Bill took his chance and deftly ducked out of the neck lock the other man had compromised with and, simply put, legged it. He got almost as far as the longboat before the Frenchman tackled him to the ground, pinning his arms to his sides and sitting on his knees.

"Touché." Remarked Koehler, leaning over Bootstrap with a sneer, chuckling at his own joke, and the Frenchman bowed at the waist.

"Merci."

Bill grunted, but was helped back to his feet by Twigg and again restrained, this time by the bo'sun and Alpert, two bigger men than the last. Within seconds, he was back in front of the impatient looking crew, but this time down on his knees, with the Captain looming over him, seemingly ready for a speech. Which, apparently, they had time for. All the time in the world.

---

"An' tha', ladies, is why you should never ignore a sea turtle."

A young man was sat at a table in the first bar he had found, one hand cradling a bottle of rum and the other arm swung around the shoulders of a pair of. Every now and then, the man's attention snapped to the door, as if waiting for someone, but no one questioned the man's puzzled look. Threaded through his hairs were all manner of strange trinkets, beads, metal circles, and a few braids of hair to complete the assembled miscellanea, but with an uncompleted look to the collection. A thick red bandana wound round his head – under the bandana, his eyes were rimmed by a strange black powder. When asked the origins, he was vague, but told the inquirers that it was called 'kohl' – a clutch of hair with a reindeer shin bone assembled over it. Usually accompanying the look was a large black hat, and sure enough, a hat, not the one but a similar one, was held protectively under his elbow.

It was a small bar, only six tables, but each and every one of them was packed to full, or in some cases overflowing. Any newcomers soon found out that this was because the man who owned had been going broke, so he'd lowered his prices to those that even the most impoverished could afford – Therefore, the perfect choice if all your belongings happened to be on the ship you used to Captain, by no fault of your own.

He raised the bottle to his mouth… empty, always empty… with a sigh, and untangled himself from one woman who had fallen asleep against his side. He ignored the looks from the other men in the bar, all glaring at him as if for having stolen the attention of every good looking woman in the bar, and he had at that. There were eight women at his table, despite there being six seats. Two were on the young man's lap.

Normally an optimistic man, tonight he held an unusual look of dread in his eyes, and he kept glancing out the window, as if scared to go out. He seemed unnaturally spooked, and the men in the tavern could tell, but they didn't know why. Mostly the women were just flattered by the attention he was giving them. He removed a small compass from his pocket, and the tiny needle spun wildly, seemingly unwilling to point in any direction. Needless to say, this compass only pointed North by sheer coincidence, and it's owner did not know what he wanted. Mainly, he had to admit, he was glad to be alive, and to be off that damned island, if you could call it that. It had been a hard month, to get where he was – Tortuga. Truly no man could ever feel unwanted.

"More importantly, it is indeed a sad life that has never breathed deep the sweet proliferous bouquet that is Tortuga, savvy?" he explained to the women, who were, amazingly, hanging onto his every word. Seeing his empty bottle, one angled hers towards him, the youngest of the lot. Her ginger hair was cut short messily, and over her eyes, and she barely came up to his shoulders. Appealing little thing she was, he felt sorry for the Asian girl, stuck with this lot.

"I'm not sure I can drink any more, love." The man said, his voice slightly slurred. "Not that it's not an uncommonly nice drink."

They carried on drinking well into the early morning, and eventually the innkeeper turfed all of them out of the tavern and in the state they were in they parted ways with cheerful compliance. The young man wobbled uncertainly along the street, singing a shanty softly to himself, and examining anyone who passed him with bleary-eyed interest, his scares ancient history.

"Lookin' for a companion for the night, mister?" The girl appeared from an alleyway, expanses of dark skin bulging from a tight bodice, and ex-Captain Jack Sparrow peered in fascination at her as if he'd never seen a lady of the night before.

"Maybe. Possibly." He frowned stupidly, cocking his head, and cast her a mischievous grin, "Am I?"

She laughed, her Spanish accent coming through, and took his arm.

---

Bootstrap made a face. The Captain's so called speeches had an uncanny habit of dragging on. The crew seemed to agree, and many kept looking into the sky and at their bodies as if to see if they were still skeletons or if the sun had come up by now. They weren't, and it hadn't.

"But Bill, this be no time for speeches." Finished Captain Barbossa, after what sounded suspiciously like a speech.

By this time, the bo'sun and Twigg had strapped a belt around the barrel of the cannon, and Bootstrap's bootstraps had been lashed on tightly. The crew, along with Bill, had stopped listening and just got on with the plan, and Bill was crouched down, unable to straighten up completely. His fingertips were red raw from trying to claw his way out of his new containment. By the end of the speech, or whatever, however, he'd given in, and attempted one more time to convince Barbossa.

"Barbossa, what I said, I was wrong, I…" he trailed off. It was useless.

"Don't sell out your beliefs." Muttered Alpert, silenced by a look from his crew. "Sorry."

Barbossa put up a hand. "Bill." He said simply, "Yer a good ally. But yer a liability, we can't trust ye. And as fer yer mutinous thoughts…"

"For my mutinous.. _My_ mutinous…!"

Barbossa signalled for the cannon to be lifted, and this time it took three men to keep it off the ground, but all of a sudden he hurriedly signalled for them to stop. "Oh, and Bill, afore ye go – We'll be havin' back your gold piece." He held out his hand for the piece of Aztec Gold Bill, like the rest of the crew, who Bill now noticed weren't, had all been wearing around their necks as trophies.

"No."

"No?

"No."

"And why not?" There was more than a hint of his well-known fire and panic in Barbossa's tone.

"I don't have it."

"Ye what?" Koehler snarled, breathing heavily and almost dropping his part of the cannon over the edge prematurely. He hefted it up, so much so that Bootstrap could now stand. Someone leapt forward, pulling open Bill's shirt, as all of them ignored the buttons that clinked to the floor. Bill was telling the truth – The gold was gone, and he had no pockets to hide it in. Someone rushed down to the brig on the Captain's order, and a few minutes later came back looking frantic.

"It's not there!"

Barbossa's hand hovered dangerously close to Bootstrap's neck, for all the good it would do. "Where. Is. It." He crunched out each word as though it was a poison he wanted out of his body.

"I told you before, we deserved to be cursed." Bill pointed out, smiling conspiratorially. He had the upper hand at last. "If all's well, it's left the Caribbean by now, halfway to England!" His voice got dangerously high, and very loud.

Barbossa flapped his arm in the direction of the crew, and they shut up. All them seemed terrorised, and were gawking at Bill in incredulity. In time, Barbossa closed his eyes, and the corner of his mouth turned up, with a chuckle and a shake of his head. He opened his eyes and looked up at Bill. "So it's true what they say, fools seldom differ." He observed, referring to Bootstrap's friendship with Jack Sparrow. "Well, that's all the matters attended to. Gents, the cannon, if ye please."

The bo'sun, Koehler and Alpert hefted the cannon onto the side of the ship, the woodwork croaking like a distressed frog. One of men tugged on the belt, pulling Bootstrap over to the edge, while the other two strained, going purple in the face and hands with the effort, to keep the cannon in place.

"Bootstrap Bill Turner," addressed Barbossa, taking off his hat and bowing with a flourishing swish of his headgear, "Here's to you, wherever life may take you."

"Damn you, Hector Barbossa!" shouted Bill, while the crew started up a chant.

"Go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go…!"

"Ye've angered Cortés!" shouted Bootstrap, "Damn you all!"

He growled under his breath at the chanters, wishing for his blade.

The three men let go. Clambering for the edge, Bootstrap Bill Turner plummeted to the water at an astonishing speed, hitting the water before he could scream. The End.

_Epilogue_Aboard the ship, there was a tremor of excitement. Somewhat to Jack's surprise, the arrival of twenty new crew members (and a spider monkey) had been greeted welcomingly by the tired crew. In the two days preparing for sail, there were no fights and few arguments, mostly on with those crewmen who took their time getting to the ship in the first place - Jack almost lost his temper at the ship's cook, Wolf, short for Wolfgang but everyone agreed Wolf sounded more piratey, an old German who Jack had sailed with since the first time he'd sailed on _The Black Pearl_, when he arrived then minutes before cast off (he'd been worried for the man's safety). Bill and Hector seemed to be getting along. Everything was, Jack concluded, going wonderful.

Jack watched as they put the port to their rudder: The sails were set now, and Bootstrap was holding _The Black Pearl_ steady on her course. As the crew settled to their various tasks: Pintel and Ragetti cleaning the deck, more able men fixing various parts of the ship – Jack took off his boots and coat and laid them aside before swinging himself up into the rigging, grasping the rope with ease, climbing into the crow's nest and taking a quick look out for other ships, before settling down comfortably.

---

Six days later they were well past the coast of Jamaica, and heading Southwest. Jack was at the helm, occasionally glancing at his peculiar compass – bartered off of a voodoo women on a small island full of… Less than welcoming natives – guiding his beloved ship with a firm hand. He had been there for a watch and a half already, with Wolf bringing him the odd drink at intervals.

Bill came up the steps to the quarterdeck, and watched his friend silently for a few minutes.

"Got a problem, Mr Turner?" Jack asked, eventually.

"You cannot steer this vessel all the way to the island," Bill returned, "How far is it yet?"

"Two, maybe three days, depends o' the wind." Jack said, "Can't be sure, can'I, never havin' bin there mesel'."

"Let me take the helm, Jack." Bootstrap suggested, "Finish the watch."

"No thanks." Said Jack, with a smile, "The Pearl's in good hands."

Bill came a little closer, and lowered his voice. "Jack, please. Gimme the bearin', gimme the helm."

Fingers tracing the knots of wood in the handcrafted wheel, Jack shook his head. "I'm wide awake, Bill, and I'm going to stay that way." He waved a hand, "It's no' yer watch, go and have a drink or something."

"Jack…" Bill tried.

Jack turned from the helm, expertly keeping one hand steering them in the right bearing, and gave Bill a look, one eyebrow raised. Bill sighed, and went away, somehow reluctantly, Jack noticed with a baffled breath.

---

When night came, Jack still stood at the helm, legs braced, hands resting on the helm, willing the vessel onwards through the dark. A lantern swung on either side of the helm, letting some light into the unearthly fog that had fallen over the ship.

At eight o'clock, the watches changed. The crew who had been on board went below, and men came up on deck pulling on clothes and yawning grumpily. As he disappeared to get some sleep, Bootstrap threw Jack a look but said nothing.

Barbossa crossed to the helm, his monkey chattering on his shoulder.

"Keep that little bugger away from me." Jack told him, not taking his eyes away from the sails.

Reaching his hand up, Barbossa scratched the tiny, scraggly monkey behind the ear as if he was a dog. "Still haven't given him a name."

"Don't much care if you never do."

"Shall I be takin' the helm, then Cap'n?" Hector asked, promptly changing the subject as the monkey scuttled up the ropes on the sail, "You must be gettin' sleepy." His voice was almost hypnotic.

"Not at all." Jack replied smoothly. In fact, he was beginning to feel rather weary, but the adrenalin in his veins was enough to keep him alert for a good while yet. Barbossa, unlike Bill, did not press the matter, but went off to speak to some of the men he had arrived with, leaving Jack, eyes half closed, on his own at the helm, continuing to steer the ship toward the Isla de Muerta. The watch changed another time, and Bill came to the helm, acknowledged that Jack was not giving up the helm in any hurry, and went back to duty without a word. At dawn, the sun rose, sending slices of rainbow light across the ocean and the hull of the ship, the winding holding them steady, but the clouds were so drawn that it was still as dark as night. Jack was tired now, and beginning to wonder if he should divulge the island's coordinates to either or both of his mates. He had hoped to take _The Black Pearl_ all the way. But as he stood yawning in the sun, gold tooth reflecting the light in his eyes and momentarily blinding him, he was beginning to be less sure that his concentration and sanity would last that long. Changing the bearing every now and then was one thing, but the wheel was going to have to be in someone else's hands for a while if Jack was going to get any sleep.

He accepted some coffee, the beans picked up for trading with last time they made port, and some food from Wolf, and ate at the helm, considering his options. One the foredeck, some of the men were gathering, and Jack began to wonder what they were doing – They weren't all on watch, and surely those who weren't would prefer the comfort of their hammocks. They were mostly Barbossa's men. Barbossa himself appeared on deck, rearranging his flamboyant hat and glanced across at the foredeck. With a deep yawn, Jack's eyes narrowed, something seemed fishy. Taking a quick look at his compass, satisfied that he was going to the right way, Jack shrugged it off as discussion on the strange watches.

A few minutes later, Bill and Hector came up to the helm together. Bootstrap looked stressed, his handsome face anxious, but as if in contrast Barbossa looked astonishingly cheerful.

"Mornin'." Slurred Jack.

"Notice you commandeered a drink or two last night."

"Aye."

"Jack, you have to give us the bearings." Said Bootstrap, without preamble.

"Captain Sparrow." Countered Jack instinctively, not wanting to lose face in front of Barbossa.

"Jack," insisted Bill, "I've remember you the first day you came on _The Pearl,_ a scrawny little nipper. I'm not asking as your mate here, I'm telling you as a friend."

"I remember that day too, but I fail to see what that has to do with the price o' rum or the Isla de Muerta. Apparently," he waved his hand dismissively in the direction of the grouped crew, "You don't think I can take ye there."

"It a'int –"

"I reckon our good Cap'n needs the facts explained to 'im." Interrupted Barbossa, pushing his way in between the arguing friends. Bill shot Jack a look of hopelessness, one he hadn't remembered every seeing on his friend's face before. Barbossa folded his arms. "T'is like this, Captain Sparrow: You promised us an equal share, I reckon tha' means equal shares of the coordinates too."

"Equal shares of the treasure, mate." Pointed out Jack.

"Aye," persisted Hector, without a pause, aimlessly twiddling with the sharks tooth hanging from the loop in his right ear (a trinket he'd caught Jack admiring a few days ago, although it was unlikely Jack would have chosen to wear it in his ear), "But to get to the treasure we need to get to the island, the men all agree we won't follow a Cap'n who a'int got our best interests at heart."

"Aye!" shouted some of the new crewmen, Alpert, the short squat man with the cannons and a goliath stringy Irish man Jack recognised as a newcomer, less new than the rest but new, called Shortly, picked up for his shipwright skills, included.

Jack looked from one to the other, and deliberately took his hands off the helm. Without his caring hold, the ship shuddered a little and lost some of her wind. The pirates were gathering now on the deck, watching the events unfold. They had split into two groups: Barbossa's group was by far the large of the two, and Jack noticed with a pang that some of his original crew had joined them. Hands rested on sword hilts.

"So it's a mutiny you want." Mused Jack, more to himself than anything else.

"If you call it that, aye."

At a signal from Barbossa his group drew their swords, and advanced from their places. Hearing a click, Jack turned and looked over his shoulder at Bootstrap, who, holding his pistol with the hammer cocked between Jack's shoulders, failed to make eye contact, instead examining the gun with apparent interest.

"The bearings, if you please, Captain Sparrow." Barbossa's use of the title seemed incredibly insulting, and as Jack yawned again he couldn't tell whether or not it was intentional.

The two sides of the fight were advancing on each other, and with a war cry Wolf suddenly raised his sabre above his head and attacked the dreadlocked Koehler. There was a loud clash of metal, sparks and a spurt of ruby red, and the old man dropped to the deck. A silence fell upon the crew, all of them. All eyes turned to Jack.

Jack was lost. He had no idea what he could do that wouldn't endanger his or his loyal crews' lives, with _The Black Pearl _still in their hands. He came up with nothing, after a minute's hesitation.

"Please Jack." Whispered Bill, his voice imploring.

Jack reached slowly into his coat, and drew out the charts he had inked in at Tobago, unfolding it as he pointed at a point on the map. "I reckon we're here." He paused, following the trail his fingers made, "And we want to be here." There was a hole, about the width of a small knife blade, where Jack now pointed.

Barbossa took the chart. "Wise decision Jack. Bo'sun?" The tall tattooed man approached the helm, and Bootstrap removed his gun. Jack didn't move trying to escape. "Bind _Mister _Sparrow's hands, and send someone to fetch his effects, wherever he left them this time. He'll be needing a pistol."

The bo'sun scoffed at Jack. Rope was produced some somewhere in the crowd, and Jack's hands bound in front of him. The bo'sun marched him down the steps to where his subdued crew stood, behind enemy lines. Wolf's body lay on the deck, blood running through the cracks in the deck, unattended to. Someone had already pulled a plank over the edge of the ship beside the stairs on the side, and Barbossa called, challenging Jack to object, for the ship to heave to. Jack watched in horror as the other man commanded his ship.

Barbossa put an arm around Jack's shoulders, and pointed with a free hand into the dark. "See that little islet?"

Jack couldn't, and neither could most of his crew who squinted in the direction, but replied, managing to stitch a smile onto his lips with a nod. "I see it."

Barbossa looked unconvinced. "That'll be yours. We have your things, one sword, one pistol, as the Code commands." He clicked his fingers, and Jack was stripped down to bare feet (which he was already in, having removed his boots at some point in the night) and trousers, his coat and hat thrown carelessly into the corner made between the stairs and the ship hull. "That's for good measure."

"The code demands obedience to your Captain when they've done no wrong, reckon ye've already broken it, mate."

"This be not the time for parlay, Jack. And that'd be Captain Barbossa. But you see, the code be more actual… Guidelines, Jack. I'll take it yer not wantin' yer pistol then?" he dangled it over the edge of the ship.

"No, no, I'll take it." Jack protested hastily, to which Barbossa grinned as if to a good friend.

"One shot." He opened the pistol and took out all but one bullet, throwing the rest in one fluid movement over the side.

"I swear, Barbossa, I'll save it! I'll save it for you." Jack said softly, visibly shaking but not from the cold.

"Ye'll have a shot in the head within the week." Argued Hector, although he wondered at Jack's will, and how long it had been known to last. "But we'll toast to your health when we're rich men, anyway. Get going." He poked him in the back towards the plank, causing Jack to almost fall over the side.

"We'll be seeing ye." Grinned spindly Ragetti, waggling his fingers in Jack's direction.

At the same time, every man on board seemed to have something to say.

"Bon Voyage." Added the Frenchman, receiving a pat on the back from his fellows. Obviously that much of his language was understood. He attempted some English. "Good… Bye?"

Pintel slapped him across the shoulder playfully. "Atta boy, Frenchie."

"Glad I'm not ye, Jack." Koehler sniggered, apparently pleased with himself.

"Yeah." Agreed shaggy Twigg, "What 'e said."

Jack, staring like a deadweight out to sea, didn't reply, while Bootstrap's face looked as close to tears as he could get without it being his own son on the plank. He was staring at Jack, in front of the rest of the crew but beside Barbossa.

Jack was scared. He never let it show, but today the disrespectful looks he was receiving from all the crew were their answer to the look in his eyes. His shoulders fell, as he walked slowly down the splintered wooden plank, trying to see where he was actually headed. Gulping, he looked over his shoulder, bent the stiffness out of his neck, and changed his tune. With a start of surprise, Barbossa realised Jack was grinning madly.

"You forgot one very important thing, mate." Dialogued Jack, as he stood at the very rim of the plank.

"And what be that?" asked Hector, as if to a small child.

Jack turned to look at Bootstrap, still grinning but looking betrayed, and getting no response turned back to Barbossa. "I'm _Captain_ Jack Sparrow. Savvy?"

Barbossa held back a snarl and a sharp remark, but saluted Jack, throwing the pistol into the sea. Jack yelped, his face going pale, but stopped to salute – deftly and arrogantly with his bound hands – Barbossa back before executing a hurried but complex dive into the sea. Many of the crew muttered – Jack could swim?

"Trust us to maroon someone who can swim." Grumbled Alpert, joining the rest of the men in waiting for Jack to breach the surf.

Barbossa grinned, satisfied, and turned his back on the ripples across the waves that marked Jack's departure. He had no doubt Sparrow would make it to shore. He stopped walking, ran his hands down the helm, and pinned down the map with his spyglass on a ledge.

_The Black Pearl _set sail.


End file.
